Oathsworn
by Daniel K. English
Summary: A modern day college student travels Tamriel as an orc three years before the Stormcloak Rebellion.
1. Chapter 1

**1.1**

* * *

So this is how it feels like to be a rabbit, thought Sifina as she leaned against another tree.

It didn't feel nice. She almost empathized with her usual quarry. But she was a reasonable hunter, who used her arrows quietly and efficiently. Her prey would die swiftly. She was merciful.

But not these men. Bandits, the lot of them. She could hear them murmuring in the woods, giving orders and keeping track of each other. They combed every tree, watched every corner. They were pressuring her into making mistakes. It worked, too—behind her was a trail of broken twigs and parted flora, pressed grass and turned pebbles, all leading up to the tree she rested upon. But these mistakes weren't ones they could capitalize on; these men were, after all, ignorant to the way of the hunt. They didn't share intimacy with nature. They weren't hunters like her, and that was keeping her alive.

But not for long. They were ignorant of the way of the hunt, but not entirely incompetent. Their methods were slow but thorough. She wouldn't be able to hide from them, so she had to keep moving even if the burning discomfort in her ankle protested.

They were like a pack of wolves pursuing a wounded deer.

With some difficulty and quiet swearing, she made her way over root and stone to the closest haven she could reach: the watchtower.

It was hardly an ideal place to hide. It was too open with too few defenders. No doubt the bandits had eyes trained on the place. Still, it remained the only location she was sure to find some protection at. She knew the men there. They were good people.

Sifina kept her eyes on any possible ambushes as she crawled over the last hill and skirted near the treeline. The ruined tower looked as if a giant had taken half the structure; the roof had collapsed long ago, and a quarter of the wall had fallen to expose the quarters inside. Though it stood in disrepair, the tower was a beacon of hope only a short walk away. Even with her sprained ankle she could make it.

She weighed the risk of danger by exposing herself to the assistance she would get by finding shelter within the tower. She bit her lip. The correct choice was obvious. She limped as quickly as she could from the trees, her hunting bow and quiver hanging off her shoulder. The burning in her ankle made it harder to walk, and yet she didn't stop even as she caught sight of a shadow moving by the braizers burning near the mouth of the entrance. She recognized the blue leather uniform. With unspeakable relief she increased her pace, driven by fear and paranoia bubbling in her stomach.

But as she neared, Sifina noticed something wrong.

There were five guards dressed in scale armor draped with the Hold's colors. One was speaking to a traveler with a horse. The rest stood at the entrance, eyes on the trees.

Her eyes drank in details. She could tell the guards were strange even with the fire from the braziers casting shadows over their faces. The shapes of their bodies were wrong. The way they held their weapons were different than usual. There was no one looking down from the ruined walls, nor could she see anyone on break inside. And then there was the smell of blood.

One of the other guards noticed her. "You there!" he shouted. His voice was unfamiliar. "What are you doing out here in the middle of the night? Get over here!"

Sifina took a step back. Her hand drifted towards her bow.

Her eyes darted. The trees were empty, but she could see signs of disturbance. It was a trap.

Her bow moved with practiced ease even as she began backing away. An arrow from her quiver flew into the throat of one of the guards, and he fell with a wet gurgle.

Sensing that their cover was blown, the others picked up their weapons and charged.

Another arrow flew, this one only piercing the forearm of its target.

Sifina notched a third arrow, only to fumble it as one of the guards tackled her. She rolled on the ground, her arrows spilling from her quiver. Strong arms dragged her upward for a moment, and she struggled, punching and kicking before a sharp kick planted itself into her ribs. She was lithe, built for the speed and grace she prided herself in. The kick winded her easily.

She saw a bandit in a guard's uniform raise his axe from the corner of her eye.

A bestial cry sounded from behind her. The arms holding her up let go and a violent force threw her onto the road. She recovered quickly and scrambled for her hunting bow.

"Praise the Eight," she muttered as she readied an arrow.

The traveler—a large orc in leathers—was fighting the disguised bandits with a battleaxe. One bandit was most assuredly dead, with his head rolling from his fallen body. A second, the one her previous arrow injured, was running away. He fell when another arrow found its way into his back.

The orc had no trouble in dispatching the remaining two. The butt of orc's axe checked across the jaw of one, sending the bandit reeling. The other imposter found a pummel shoved into his gut, and, with the same smooth motion, the edge of the orc's axe dug deep into his side. Dropping the axe, the orc pulled a dagger from his belt, threw the final bandit on the ground with brutish strength, and stabbed once. When the orc stood, Sifina cautiously trained her arrow on him.

"Who are you?" she demanded. "Stay back. I'll shoot."

"I'm a traveler," the orc said, showing his empty hands. His arms were as thick as young trees. They could break her neck like a twig. "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't shoot."

"Th-they weren't guards, you know."

"I could tell by the smell."

"Then what were you doing with them?"

"Trying to not give them a reason to attack me."

Sifina lowered her bow a little. "My ankle is injured. Can you help me to Falkreath?"

The orc studied her, as if deciding she was worth the trouble, before grunting in consent. "Fine. Get your stuff. I'll bring my horse."

The orc was an intimidating one. With dark green skin, taller than her by at more than a head, as broad as a door, and most certainly muscled in a way that only ogres should be, he was not someone she wanted to contend with injured or not. She heard stories of how orcs could kill armored men with only bare hands, of how orcs feasted on the flesh of the young, and how they pillaged towns and raped the women. But as the orc led his horse towards her, he seemed to possess at least a little compassion and helped Sifina onto the saddle. She focused on the two sharp teeth protruding from his bottom lip that glinted menacingly in the dim light.

"Calm down. I'm an orc, not a murderer," the orc rumbled.

"I'm sorry."

"Whatever. Move over." She did, and he climbed on behind her. He smelled rather clean. "This is a bit awkward, but bear with it. Falkreath, right?"

"Yes, please." The horse began to move.

"What are you doing out here anyway?" the orc asked.

She flinched at his voice, gripping her bow tightly before answering. "I was hunting earlier, so I left my leathers at home. I went a different route and found a bandit lair." She gestured to her clothes, a brown linen top and breeches that were torn and ragged. "I escaped mostly unscathed. They're after me now. And likely you as well, if they see you. I'm sorry for the trouble."

The orc sighed. It sounded heavy. "Stop apologising. I'm not angry. This is just how my voice sounds."

She blinked. "Oh. Ahem. Then, ah, thank you."

"I take it those guards back there were bandits, then?"

"Yes. I knew the men stationed there. I... believe the bandits killed them."

"Huh. Competent bandits? Wonderful."

The horse galloped down the road to Falkreath in record time. Sifina kept an eye on the trees even as the exhaustion from the day's venture took its toll on her. She was tired, certainly, but with danger hanging over her neck like a blade she found it impossible to relax.

"Don't fall asleep on me now," the orc warned. "You're the one who needs to explain this to the guards."

"Why can't you?"

"Because you're the one who knows the whole story. And I'm an orc covered in blood."

He was right. His leathers were soaked in more blood than she thought. Some of it stained her clothes—not that it mattered. Her clothes were ruined anyway.

"I'll reward you when I get back to my home," Sifina said.

"No need."

"Are you sure? I only have a bit of gold, but—"

"I'm sure," he interrupted. "I did it for free. I thought people liked free help."

"There's still a debt to settle."

"In that case I'd have used it when I asked you not to shoot me. Or does that count as a second favor?" The walls of Falkreath loomed ahead. Sifina's heart leapt with joy. The orc grunted. "Alright, your stop. I'm sure the guards would like to hear about what you saw."

"Thank you very much."

"Don't be. I have a hunch this will end badly."

Sifina frowned. For an orc, this one was certainly mysterious. "What do you mean?"

"Think about it. If the bandits would take the effort to capture a watchtower and attack you to keep their lair a secret, then what's stopping them from killing you inside the city?"

"That's impossible," she muttered.

The orc grumbled to himself, "How do I explain meta-level possibility to her?"

"What does that mean?"

"Nevermind."

The guards at the gate were visible now. Four of them watched the horse approach with bows at the ready from the covered rafters atop the gate, while the two guards on the ground rested their hands on their sheathed swords.

"Halt, orc!" one shouted. "State your business."

Sifina spoke. "Sid, it's me."

Sidgar, a nord in his thirties with auburn hair, noticed the wood elf in the saddle and relaxed slightly. She looked terrible—pale, dirty and unkempt. "Sifina? You left to hunt this morning. Where were you?"

"I found bandits. This orc helped me. May we come in?"

"Aye. Tell me what happened."

The orc dismounted from the horse. He was just barely a head taller than Sidgar. The other guard at the gate shifted nervously, eyeing the bloody battleaxe strapped to the orc's back.

Sifina gave her account of what had happened from behind the walls. Lines formed on Sidgar's face as he learned the fate of the guards at the watchtower. "Well," Sidgar began, "it's good that you made it here. The captain would want to hear about this lair. Unfortunately the jarl is away on business in Solitude. I don't know if we can get men on the job soon."

"Lets hope the captain can figure something out."

"Aye. Go get some rest. I think Zaria is still awake if you need her potions."

"I will. Thank you."

The orc led the horse deeper into the city with Sifina still on the saddle. The street was empty save a few men drinking on the porch of the inn that stood near the gate. The sun was gone, and, even with the orc's warning in mind, Sifina calmed a bit.

"Umm." She hesitated. "Ser Orc? What is your name? Mine is Sifina."

Golden eyes with crossed pupils glanced at her.

"Malkus," the orc said.

"Malkus. Hmm." She offered a friendly smile. "If you don't accept gold, then how about a meal and a drink? I'd like to settle my debt if not by a little."

He frowned. "You should rest. You're injured."

She shrugged. "I'll stay down for a day to two. Zaria—she's the local apothecary—can whip up a poultice to fix me up in no time. Ah, but that bandit lair will be a problem until someone clears it out."

Malkus muttered under his breath, "I swear, if this starts a quest..."

Sifina grinned, her ears picking up his words. "Can you help me with that? The lair, I mean."

"I'm just a humble orc, miss. I can't possibly do that."

"You're in luck! You'll be in the company of a pretty wood elf lass." She flipped her red ponytail. "The two of us will be fine together. I'm a great shot with a bow, as you have seen, and I can track man and beast alike across all of Tamriel."

Malkus eyed her critically. "You're also thin. And slow."

She deflated. "Err, that's... I was injured, you see? I'm usually very quick. Like a deer."

"You're rather eager to charge back in there. After almost dying, I mean."

"I admit I was scared. But I always wanted to do something like that. You know: travel around, hunt down beasts and bandits, drink and be merry. Been my dream since I was young."

"It's not that easy..."

"Which is why I'm asking for your help. You wouldn't let me go in there alone, would you?"

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. But I'm going to need that drink."

Sifina cheered.

* * *

 _a/n: This is a rewriting_ Orcborn _. The original followed the first-person pattern other self-inserts use and I wanted to experiment a bit._


	2. Chapter 2

1.2

* * *

Dawn arrived as the third candle died. Faint sunlight reflecting off the floor in the inn's dining hall peered in from beneath the gap of his room's door. Malkus rubbed his tired eyes and let out a great yawn. Draining the last of the honeyberry tea in the kettle restored some of his mental exhaustion, though he still yearned for rest.

He rose from his chair in his room at the inn, expertly balancing a platter with the kettle and his cup atop the book he had been reading. Not a soul stirred at the Dead Man's Drink when he left his room. Setting the platter down gently as not to disturb the barkeep snoozing in the cot behind the counter, he made his way quietly out the door with his book tucked beneath his arm. There was a bounce in the orc's step that betrayed his excitement to waking town. An orc with a book drew attention no matter the time of day, thus he ignored the bewildered eyes that lingered on him and his book.

A guard stood at a crossroad, looking bored and tired. Malkus approached him.

"I'm going to practice magic in that empty lot over there. I need a spotter to stop me from doing anything dangerous." Malkus peered at the guard. "I _can_ practice here, right?"

The guard stared before nodding slowly. "Just don't go burning down any buildings."

"I'd be lucky to make a spark."

The guard kept an eye on Malkus as the orc made his way to the empty lot. Dried dirt and scarce patches of dead grass covered the square of land.

"Why is this place empty, anyway?" Malkus asked.

The guard shrugged. "S'pposed to be a burial place for the people in that house," he answered, pointing to the stone cottage behind Malkus. "But the folks there never used it before they went to Helgen. The jarl doesn't let anyone build there now. Something about the property being imposed upon. None of my business anyway."

"Fair enough."

Malkus shut his eyes and tried to sense the internal energies within him. Magicka, it was called. It was the spirit, the wellspring of power bleeding into him from the sun and stars.

Locating it within him was like identifying the blood vessels in his body.

"You thinkin' of doing something today?" the guard said.

"Eventually." Malkus opened his eyes and exhaled sharply. "Let's try this."

He waved his hand upwards. Nothing happened.

"Impressive," the guard drawled.

Malkus frowned. He tried again to sense his magicka. Magicka had no physical presence. He couldn't rely on his sense of touch. It was something spiritual, meditative. There it was, a metaphysical force swirling in his chest. It sloshed about its vessel like water in a bottle. He tried drawing up it, pulling it elsewhere. He waved his hand again. Still, nothing.

The guard yawned loudly.

Growling, Malkus thrust his hand upwards. If the feeling was metaphysical, conceptually the "muscles" that manipulated this inner well of power was another metaphysical trigger. Emotion, he suspected. His frustration became the propellant. This time, when his hands reached out, a roaring fire poured from his palm, shooting towards the sky in a fiery geyser that tapered out as it climbed higher than the roof of the cottage nearby. Malkus felt the swirling presence inside of him drain away. His surprise overcame his desire to cast the spell, and the flames died as quickly as they came. Malkus stared at where the flames once were, the blotch in his vision dark and bright blue. He licked his dry lips, and said, "Well. All according to plan. Now let's do that again."

His gaze fell to the guard, who looked sufficiently startled.

And, to his own surprise, Sifina was there silently, mouth agape.

"You just did magic," she said.

"Yes, I did. And good morning to you too."

She stared at him. "But you're an orc."

Malkus blinked, looked at his hand, and pretended to flinch. "Huh. Who knew?"

The guard snorted.

Sifina remained dumbfounded. "Orcs don't do magic."

Malkus rolled his eyes. "This is _magic_. It lets you _bend reality to your will_. It _works_. How could I _not_ try this out?" He waved his hand, shooting another gout of fire into the air. It lit the shadows around them. His lips curled up in a dangerous smile as tiny, dying embers drifted over him. That time had been easier. "And besides, more fire never hurt anyone."

" _That_ I can agree with," the guard said.

"See? A sensible man. And you'll agree with me too when we see a vampire."

Sifina wrinkled her nose. "I'd rather not see a vampire at all."

"From what I understand, you don't. Not until it's too late to matter, anyway. Better safe than sorry." Malkus picked his book up from the grass, flipping through the pages. Sifina was staring again, this time at the book thick with notes. "What?"

"You can _read_ too?"

"Yes. I can dance, too. But no singing. Why do I feel like this will be a reoccurring problem?"

Sifina groaned, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Nevermind. I don't understand anymore. And it doesn't matter. Let's just go."

"Yessuh, Mastah. Thanks for the spotting."

The guard nodded. "It made the morning interesting, at least."

Malkus reached into his coin pouch and tossed the guard a septim. "Did Zaria clear you to leave, or did you sneak out?" the orc asked the wood elf. "Before you can deny it, you still smell like columbine leaves. Zaria asked me to drag you back if you tried to escape."

Sifina scowled. "It's been three days. I'm _fine_."

"Why don't you tell that to Zaria? I needed some magicka potions, anyway." Malkus drawled. He shut his book and headed in the direction of the Grave Concoctions.

"You don't need to, really. My leg is fine. See?"

Malkus shot her a grave stare. "Your leg may be fine, but your ankle isn't. Look, you're limping."

"It's just your imagination," she said, fixing her walk.

"You're right. I'm only imagining your ankle to be hurt. Maybe I should ask Zaria to check your head as well."

"You're mean," she whined.

"And you're stubborn, impatient, and too excitable for your own good."

"I hear she also has a nasty tendency to escape her guardian's care," added a third voice. A dark-skinned woman with greying hair had her arms folded across her chest. Sifina shrank under the old Redguard's scrutinizing gaze. The Redguard turned a softer gaze on Malkus before handing him a dark bag of plant leaves. "Good morning, Malkus. Thank you for bringing her back. She would have forgotten to bring fresh changes to her poultices with her."

"Good morning, Zaria. And you're welcome." He eyed the bag. "Twice a day?"

Zaria nodded. "Once early in the morning, another in the late afternoon. Three days."

"Understood. Do you happen to have any magicka potions?"

The apothecary noticed the book tucked beneath his arm. She looked both surprised and amused. "Spells? I didn't think you orcs liked them. Yes, I have a small stock. Not many, I'm afraid. Very few buy them around here."

"Their loss."

"Why do you two get along so well?" Sifina grumbled.

"He's polite. You could learn a thing or two from him with manners like yours."

A ghost of a smile crept upon Malkus's face. "Your guardian is wise in her trade. Any intellectual dedication is worthy of respect, period."

The wood elf threw her hands up in the air and limped away.

Zaria laughed softly. "That girl. She's always been like this." The woman shook her head. "The potions are somewhere inside. I'll need to look for them."

"We are in no rush."

Malkus stepped inside Grave Concoctions in Zaria's wake. As the old woman retreated into her storeroom through a door behind the counter, the orc studied the store with curiosity. On the shelves were small containers labeled with the names of ingredients they contained, as well as racks holding vials both empty and full.

A few books sat in a shelf in the furthest side of the store. He browsed their spines, reading the titles along the spines to himself― _De Rerum Dirennis_ , _A Game at Dinner_ , _Song of the Alchemists_.

He plucked the _Herbalist's Guide to Skyrim_ from the shelf and flipped through it.

As its title suggested, it was a basic guide to the alchemical ingredients found in Skyrim, complete with illustrated samples of each ingredient.

He set it on the counter as Zaria returned from the storeroom with a rack of potions in her arms.

"These are all the magicka potions I have on hand." Two large bottles of a blue liquid clicked against the counter top. Several smaller bottles slid next to them.

"I'll take them. Also a few cure disease potions, health potions, and antidotes. This book as well."

"An aspiring alchemist?"

"Heh. Maybe someday. For now, every little bit helps."

"It's not often I meet someone with a hunger for knowledge. Especially not here." Her words were tinged with approval.

"It's a cultural thing, I think."

"Six health potions, twelve magicka potions, and three cure diseases. Six antidotes. The book." She reached behind the counter and slid over a stoppered bottle of transparent liquid. "Eighty-seven septims. Consider this potion as a gift. It is a potion of invisibility. It never hurts to have one... and you may find it useful."

Malkus picked up the potion in between his forefinger and thumb. Eying the liquid with wonder, he nodded. "I understand. Thank you."

He fished out a handful of gold coins from his coin pouch.

He hesitated briefly. The coins were of different sizes and designs. His confusion passed quickly, and he paid in several of the medium sized coins and many smaller ones.

He carefully gathered his purchases into his bag and bid the old apothecary a polite farewell. Leaving the store, the orc found his wood elf companion sitting against the wall of the cottage, idly picking at the darkened bandages wrapped around her ankle. When he grunted, she looked up, and he tossed the bag of poultices into her arms. She looked at the bag, smelled it, and gagged.

"This smells horrible," she wheezed.

"Why did you smell it?"

"It had an odor." She shifted, rising slowly. Malkus pulled her upright with a single arm. "I didn't think it'd smell that badly. It's like stepping in cow dung and not being able to wash it off."

"Ugh."

"So, are we going now?"

"Aren't you going to say goodbye?" He gestured towards the door of Grave Concoctions. "She _is_ your guardian, right?"

"Yes, she is. It's just, I'm bad at goodbyes. But I'll write. A lot."

He frowned in disapproval, but chose not to press on the matter. "I have everything I need, I suppose. We don't have the numbers for a drawn out fight, mind you. Especially not with your leg like that. At best we can find out where they're hiding out so the jarl can do something about it." His rough hand stroked his stubble as he pondered. "I have a question: do you know what gunpowder is? Or blackpowder? Explosives? Dynamite?"

"No. What are they?"

"Nevermind. We can't take all the bandits on with only the two of us. We'll need to travel light, and be careful."

"Yes, yes. You'll find that I am the quietest, sneakiest, silentest bosmer you'll ever meet."

"Definitely not the smartest."

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Do you bring your things or am I going to be the pack mule again?"

She smiled brilliantly. "Since you're offering―"

"That wasn't an offer."

"―I'll be happy to burden you with my things. Come with me, large green one. I have a pack ready for you to carry for me."

"I'm beginning to regret saving you."

"My charms will take care of that. Come, my servant!" As Sifina half-skipped, half-limped away towards where she lived in Falkreath, he caught the few wary looks a few of the townsfolk aimed in their direction. He glared right back. It discouraged them enough for them to leave, though a few of the brave ones took it as a challenge.

One reached behind him―for a knife, Malkus was certain.

At the last moment, a glance from the guard discouraged the would-be attacker. Malkus remembered the man's look before following Sifina.

It had been an old, grizzled Nord with a blind eye.

The orc had not recognized the old man; however, he resolved to keep an eye out for the elderly in general. If he was sure of anything, it was that time did little to ease prejudice born from racial discrimination in a person's heart.

Even moreso when the targets were an orc and an elf.

* * *

 _a/n: The septum as presented in this story uses several coins of different values rather than a single coin. I mean, how the hell do you count out eighty-thousand septums whenever you buy something, let alone carry it all?_


End file.
